She had no doubt that it was Willie who had killed her, but the cow probably had it coming. When Willie got back, he and his boys would take care of the Gunsmith.
But the Queen of Fences could not wait for Willie to take care of the King of Pickpockets. She was going to have to get it done herself.
THIRTY-SIX
Once again Appo used Red to get a message to Clint Adams.
“I’m gettin’ real tired of bein’ used as a messenger boy,” Red said, “and then bein’ sent away when the talkin’ starts.”
“If you do this,” Appo said, “Bethany will know that you helped her.”
“I’d do anythin’ for Bethany, George,” Red said.
So he went to Clint’s hotel and found him waiting in his room to hear from . . . somebody.
“George wants you to meet him and Bethany at the Metropole,” Red told him when Clint opened his door.
“When?”
“Noon.”
“You gonna be there?” Clint asked.
“Naw,” Red said. “I don’t wanna hear a bunch of grown-up talk.”
Clint smiled. It was better for Red to sound like he was skipping the meeting of his own accord.
“Okay,” Clint said. “Tell them I’ll be there.”
He closed the door, thinking this was the break he needed. If Bethany told him that Willie did the murder, then it was just a matter of days before O’Donnell got back to town, and Clint would have him.
Ma had sent word out for Bull Benson, and when the front door to her shop opened, she thought it was him. She was surprised to see that it was Willie O’Donnell.
“How’s my girl?” Willie called out.
Ma stared at him.
“Whataya doin’ back so soon?”
“Is that any way to greet yer everlovin’ man, lass?” he asked.
Ma let the Irishman take her in his arms and give her a big hug, then she pushed him away and slapped his hands down.
“Where’s the merchandise?”
“Still on the way with the boys,” Willie said. “I hopped a train to get home to you sooner.”
“Well, for a change you did the right thing,” she said. “Things have gone to hell here.”
“And you need ol’ Willie to fix it all, right?”
“Ol’ Willie needs to shut up and listen.”
So he did.
Clint went up the steps of the Metropole and inside. The same man in a tuxedo greeted him.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“I’m here to see George Appo.”
The man looked behind him.
“No kid today,” Clint said. “Just me.”
The man looked relieved.
“This way, sir.”
He followed the man to the same table as last time, where this time George Appo was sitting with a nervous-looking Bethany.
Appo stood, and he and Clint shook hands.
“Coffee,” Clint said to the waiter who appeared at his elbow.
He sat across from Bethany, to Appo’s right.
“Hello, Bethany.”
“I’m only here because George said I should talk to you.”
“But you want to talk to me, Bethany,” Clint said. “Or you wouldn’t have come to see me at my hotel.”
“That was for Ben,” she said. “I ain’t doin’ that no more. From now on I’m lookin’ out for me.”
“Does that mean you’re leaving Ma?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s not going to like that.”
“I don’t care.”
“Do you think she’ll come after you?”
She hesitated, then said, “Probably.”
“And who will she send?”
Bethany sighed. “She’ll send Ben first to try to talk me into comin’ back, and if I don’t, then she’ll send Willie.”
“And you’re afraid of Willie, right?”
“No, I ain’t afraid of Willie,” she said, “but I ain’t stupid. I see what you’re gettin’ at. Willie’s likely to kill me if I don’t go back.”
“Tell me something else.”
“What?”
“Why will Ma want you back?”
“Because nobody leaves Ma.”
“She says you’re stupid,” Clint said. “Do you think she believes that?”
“No,” Bethany said. “She hates me, but she doesn’t think I’m stupid. Not really.”
“So she wants you back because you’re smart.”
“It don’t matter why she wants me back,” Bethany said. “I ain’t goin’.”
“Well, we can keep Willie from coming after you,” Clint said.
“Yeah?”
“All you have to do is tell me who killed Libby Wellington in Denver.”
Bethany looked at Appo, who nodded.
“It was Willie.”
“Why’d he kill her?”
“She and Ben got back too early.”
“And how do you know Willie killed her?”
“Ben told me.”
“He saw him do it?”
“Yeah, through a window he saw Willie hit her over the head,”
“With what?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “What does that matter? Willie’s your killer. Now you’ll kill him, right?”
“Not exactly,” Clint said, “but I’ll see that he pays for killing her.”
“Fine,” she said, “whatever you want to do.”
“You should move out of wherever you’re living now,” Clint said. He looked at Appo. “Can we put her someplace safe?”
“I got a place.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “Bethany, why don’t you wait for us by the front door? I got something I want to talk to George about.”
She shrugged, stood up, then said, “Now I know how Red feels.”
She left the table and went to the front.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Is Willie O’Donnell stupid?”
“He’s not stupid,” Appo said, “but he’s not intelligent. He’s . . . crafty.”
“If Ben saw him kill the woman, why would he leave him alive?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because he’s Ma Baum’s son.”
“That’s what Bethany told me when I asked, but I didn’t buy it.”
“So what are you thinking?”
“I’m just asking questions.”
George called the waiter over, paid the bill, and then he and Clint joined Bethany at the door.
“I’ll go with Bethany to her place to get her things and then take her to my place. She can stay there until I get her another place.”
Clint nodded, and the three of them went out the door. They were halfway down the stairs when the shots started. Clint heard them, then pushed Bethany to the side and hit the ground. He rolled down the steps the rest of the way, banging his left elbow painfully, but producing his gun with his right hand.
He came up on one knee, looking for the shooter or shooters, but they were gone. One barrage was all they had the nerve for.
He looked up the stairs at Appo, who seemed to be in shock. His face was white as a sheet.
“You okay?” Clint asked.
“I think so.” Appo patted his body. “I’m—I’m not shot.”
“Where’s Beth—” Clint said, looking around and stopping short when he spotted her lying on the steps facedown.
“Bethany?” he called, thinking she was too scared to lift her head, but she didn’t move.
“Oh God,” Appo said. They both rushed to her and saw the little rivulet of blood that was rolling from beneath her body.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Bethany was taken to Bellevue Hospital with two bullets in her, one in the chest and another in the shoulder. Clint had gotten to her first and done what he could to stanch the bleeding until help could arrive. It was a miracle that she was still alive.
In the waiting room of Bellevue, Clint asked Appo, “Did you see the shooters?”
“Shooter
s?”
“Sounded like more than one to me.”
“Oh, no, I—I didn’t see. I have to admit I was . . . cowering.”
“That’s a good thing to do when somebody’s shooting at you, especially if you’re unarmed.”
“I feel like a coward,” Appo said. “I did nothing. At least you pushed Bethany to the side.”
“Big deal,” Clint said. “I might have pushed her right into the path of those bullets.”
“I saw you,” Appo said. “You tried to protect her, and at the same time you drew your gun. You were ready.”
“Drawing my gun is a reflex,” Clint said.
“I guess you really are the Gunsmith,” Appo said. “I mean, the man they say you are.”
“You can never tell.”
A doctor came toward them and they both turned to face him.
“I don’t know how, but she’s still alive. We’ll know more if she lasts another twenty-four hours.” He was an older man, in his fifties, with gray hair. He shook his head. “Who’d want to shoot down a young girl like that?”
As he walked away, Clint said, “I think we know who those shots were meant for.”
“Yeah,” Appo said. “Me.”
“I was thinking me.”
“No,” Appo said. “Ma probably got word that I was helping Bethany, and she tried to have me killed.”
“By who?”
“If Willie was in town, I’d say him and one of his boys. If not, then just somebody Ma keeps around to do her dirty work—somebody like Bull Benson, maybe.”
“Where do I find Bull Benson?”
“Hey, we don’t know that he did it.”
“If he didn’t, maybe he knows who did.”
“You’ll find him someplace in Five Points,” Appo said. “But you can’t go there alone.”
“I don’t intend to.”
“I don’t have a gun, but—”
“You stay here in case Bethany wakes up,” Clint said. “She’ll need to know somebody’s here. I have a man in mind to take with me.”
“Okay, but— Uh-oh, here comes Byrnes.”
Clint turned and saw Captain Byrnes storming toward him, his face so suffused with blood it seemed to be glowing. Trailing behind him were two uniformed police officers.
“You turned the street in front of the Metropole into the old West?” he demanded. “What were you thinking?”
“Here,” Clint said, holding his gun out to Byrnes.
“What’s that for?”
“Check it,” Clint said. “I never fired a shot.”
Byrnes hesitated, then took the gun, sniffed it, and then handed it back.
“What happened?”
“Somebody just opened fire on us.”
“Who’s ‘us’?” Byrnes asked. He still hadn’t looked at George Appo.
“Appo, Bethany, and me.”
“Anybody hit?”
“Bethany,” Clint said. “She took two bullets, one in the chest and one in the shoulder.”
“Is she dead?”
“No.”
“That’s too bad,” Byrnes said, then added, “I mean, too bad she was shot.”
“She was almost certainly not the target,” Clint said.
“You?”
“That’s what I say, but Appo thinks it was him.”
“Why?”
“He thinks Ma doesn’t like that he’s helping Bethany leave her.”
“She left Ma?”
“That’s right.”
“Then she may well have been the target.”
Clint shook his head. “I don’t think even Ma Mandelbaum would do that.”
“You’re thinking there’s something inside of that woman, some semblance of . . . maternal instinct?”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Clint said.
“I can’t go along with that thinking,” Byrnes said. “I’m going to have to go and have a talk with Ma.”
He didn’t invite Clint along, and Clint didn’t ask. He had his own plans.
“Appo, don’t make any plans to leave the city,” Byrnes said.
“Captain,” Appo said very calmly, “I never leave the city.”
Byrnes just nodded, then turned and waved to his men to follow him.
“If he goes and talks to Ma,” Clint said, “she might come here.”
“You think she will?”
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “You and Byrnes know her better than I do. Is she that cold that she’d try to have Bethany killed?”
“I still think either me or you was the intended victim, ” Appo said. “It makes more sense.”
“Well, just don’t be surprised if she shows up here,” Clint said. “Meanwhile, I’m going to go and find Bull Benson.”
“You sure you’ve got somebody—”
“I’ve got a good man to go with me,” Clint said, “and he’s local.”
“Be careful in Five Points,” Appo said. “They don’t like strangers there.”
“I’ve been to a lot of places where they didn’t like strangers,” Clint said.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Charles Dickens had this to say about Five Points:
“This is the place: these narrow ways diverging to the right and left, and reeking every where with dirt and filth. . . . See how the rotten beams are tumbling down, and how the patched and broken windows seem to scowl dimly, like eyes that have been hurt in drunken frays. Many of these pigs live here. Do they ever wonder why their masters walk upright in lieu of going on all-fours? and why they talk instead of grunting?”
Five Points was also known as the Sixth Ward, but the name came from the five converging streets of Mulberry, Anthony, Cross, Orange, and Little Water streets.
Clint met with Delvecchio and told him where he wanted to go.
“Five Points.”
“That’s right,” Clint said. “Seems that’s where I’ll find somebody named Bull Benson.”
“I know Benson.”
“Do you know everybody in this town who walks on the wrong side of the law?”
Delvecchio thought a moment, then said, “Yeah, pretty much. Ain’t that the kind of person you need right now?”
“I guess it is.”
“I’ll bet you know a lot of men in the West who walk on the wrong side.”
Clint thought a moment, then said, “Yeah, I do.”
“Okay,” Delvecchio said, “Five Points it is.”
The cab they took would not take them into Five Points.
“I ain’t that crazy, gents,” the driver said.
“That’s okay,” Delvecchio said. “We’ll walk from here.”
They got out and Clint saw that they were on Little Water Street. They walked two or three blocks and Clint suddenly noticed the difference. The buildings were more run-down, and the decay became apparent not only to the eye but to the nose as well.
“Where are we going?”
“We won’t have to try very hard to find Benson,” Delvecchio said. “If I’m right, he’ll be in this Irish saloon I know of.”
“That’ll be handy,” Clint said. “I could use a beer right about how.”
“Um, are you carrying that little gun of yours?” Delvecchio asked.
Clint reached behind his back, inside his jacket, and came out with his modified Colt.
“No,” he said. “I thought my regular sidearm might come in handy if someone tried to shoot at me from across the street again.”
“I feel better already,” Delvecchio said as Clint tucked the gun away.
Bull Benson was standing at the bar enjoying his beer and his audience. He was regaling them with tales of old fights and conquests, stories they’d all heard before but were afraid to mention. He was a huge man, six foot six, and very wide. No one in Five Points had ever seen him bested in a fight.
When the bar suddenly grew quiet, he looked toward the door and saw the two men standing just inside.
“Is that Delvecchio?” he called across the floo
r. “Who’s your friend, Delvecchio?”
“Hello, Bull,” Delvecchio said. “Can we have a word?”
Benson spread his arms—a huge wingspan—and said, “I don’t have any secrets from my friends.”
“We’re lookin’ for your friend Willie O’Donnell,” Delvecchio said.
“Get away from me!” Benson growled at the men around him. Then he waved to Delvecchio and Clint. “Come ’ere.”
“Don’t be askin’ for Willie out loud like that,” Benson told Delvecchio. “Who’s your friend?”
“His name is Clint Adams. He’s lookin’ for Willie.”
“Why?”
“Somebody took a shot at me today,” Clint said. “I think it was Willie.”
“Willie’s out of town.”
“Then a friend of Willie’s.”
“I’m the only friend Willie’s got,” Benson said, “and I didn’t take a shot at you. If I was gonna kill ya, I’d do it with my hands.”
“I can believe it.”
“Are you law?”
“Do I look like law?”
“You look like somethin’,” Benson said. “Somethin’ I don’t like.”
“Bull, you still workin’ for Ma Baum?”
“I ain’t never worked for her.”
“You work for Willie, and Willie works for her,” Delvecchio said.
Benson laughed and said, “Yeah, right. Willie works for her.”
“What do you mean by that?” Clint asked.
“You ain’t the law,” Benson said. “I don’t hafta talk ta you.”
“Bull—” Delvecchio said.
“Get out, Del,” Benson said. “I ain’t gotta talk ta either one of you.”
“Get a message to your pal Willie,” Clint said. “I know what he did, and I’m going to make him pay— unless he stops me.”
“With talk like that, friend, he will.”
“I’d like to see him try.”
Benson turned to face Clint head-on, looking down at him.
“I’ll give him the message, friend,” Benson said. “And you know what? I hope he sends me.”
Clint smiled up at Bull Benson and said, “You better hope he doesn’t.”
After Clint and Delvecchio left, Bull Benson had another beer. When his audience tried to come back, he waved his arms and said, “Stay away!”
Five Points Page 10
